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Transient

Transient

If only the sky would lift her head, at least then I’d knowwhich way was north. Direction has been everything to me,but has no meaning here. As it is I follow moss that growsnorth and south, rootless threads circling the trees in pathsof soft, damp pillows that smell of an earthy yeast and a worldsimple, over-risen, and too yielding to make mine.Each night I gather grief and remorse, wake hot with fingersclenched in an arthritic arc, the house silent save for therhythmic sighs of my boys. My dreams of them plain: sun,snow, winds a flush of salty air. Their bodies bound to whatis known and known well. What I have withheld sits heavyin my chest like a beached whale collapsing upon herself.Returning home would be resolve, a coastline with onlytwo directions. Following one would be intuitive, the seastretched out, the sky a giantess holding out a delicate hand.Familiarity a braid of memories and wisdom, an ability. A skillas old as telling stories or weaving beach grass as strong asthe arc of ribs that break before the thudding heart.